Impossible Things
by paradiso
Summary: Stella/Mac. Mac has an extra room. If Stella had said yes...
1. i

a/n: with the fifth season premiering this week, I just wanted to get some more "smacked" stuff done before it drifts too far away from the canon. So this is basically one of those, "what-if?" scenarios, takes place throughout the series, with a few spoilers here and there. Oh and please forgive the obvious Lewis Carrol reference. Thanks.

**Impossible Things  
**

It was unreal.

I felt like Alice, only more human. Alice, didn't seem to mind free-falling, or conversing with inanimate objects, or becoming utterly displaced in some surreal, other-world. I couldn't say the same for myself.

Especially now.

I've never had a problem with hospitals. In fact, I find the immaculate white to be strangely comforting. There are no dark corners in hospital rooms. There's huge windows looking out over the narrow streets, purple NYU flags fluttering in the wind. There's bright lights overhead for some people. But not for me, not tonight.

I looked to Flack, undoubtedly tense in what might have been the most comfortable chair in existence and decided that this standoff between us, the self-obligatory vow he'd taken was utterly and entirely ridiculous.

"Don, please go home," I said finally.

He did not reply, uncommon for Flack, who was usually tactfully direct, especially with me.

"Come on, Mac's going to want to all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow, " I continued, hoping that a reference to the job would shake the sense back into him.

Four hours, Don Flack had been sitting in that chair, comfortable or uncomfortable as it may have been, and I was sick of it. And if I played my cards right, I would have my way, and he would be gone by morning. That or, I'd just have to wait it out until the floor nurse finally decided to kick him out.

"Stella, it's no big deal," he said, sounding like himself, "I don't want you to be alone."

"Flack," I smiled for the first time that day, "I know. I know I'm not alone. I know I have you and Lindsay and Danny and-"

I stopped when I realize that I wasn't helping. He needed something more concrete than that. He needed to know that if he walked out that door, for coffee, for some well-deserved downtime, for anything really, that I would be okay. That I wouldn't pull my knees up to my chest and hug myself the way I had when they'd first brought me in here.

I couldn't guarantee that. Thankfully I wouldn't have to.

"I'll take it from here," said Mac, tired and nonchalant in the doorway.

I hadn't even heard the door open, and neither had Flack apparently, who looked mildly surprised to see the first-grade detective. There was an air of resentment between them, something that I wasn't used to seeing because there was rarely any contempt between Mac Taylor and Don Flack on a regular day. Except that this wasn't a regular day, and Mac, with his almost-arrogant gaze was irritating, if not insulting, after hours and hours of a medical examination that never in my wildest dreams had I thought I'd one day endure.

Flack had been slightly more empathic. He glared at Mac, and I felt the tension rise. Mac himself had that same challenging spark in his eyes, daring Flack, testing him even. Asking him to go on and say something.

But that would have been too much. I was too tired, and so was Flack.

"Listen, I'll see you tomorrow," I told Flack, whose gaze snapped almost instantaneously back to me.

I moved to embrace him, and was surprised when I felt every muscle in my body relax at the contact. I'd intended for it to be just a simple message of appreciation, but Flack's arms were gentle and warm on my back, clad only in a thin hospital gown. It felt like family.

"Take care of yourself, Stella," he said in his regular tone, strong and unwavering.

"I will," I promised.

If not for myself, then for him.

--

I was stupid.

That was the only conclusion I could come to the afternoon they discharged me. I was content to sit in the pristine waiting room and pretend like there was someone coming to get me. In reality, I enjoyed the sterile environment, and in a sick, twisted way, was not bothered by the fact that I was surrounded by dozens of families who were well... waiting.

It can be a horrible thing, waiting. It is for most people. Waiting for the 4:31 train on a Monday morning, waiting for a job callback, waiting at the orphanage for the dream parents that were printed on every goddamn _Adopt a Child Today!_ pamphlet that floated around uselessly all over the city. And there I was, Thursday afternoon, in the waiting room, pretending that there was someone on their way to get me.

There was, sort of. And he was waiting too, outside the hospital at 7:30 pm when I finally pulled myself together and walked out.

"Pick a hotel. Parkview, done," said Mac jokingly, and yet without a smile.

It was nearly unbearable, "I think I'll just head home."

"Apartment is still a mess, so-"

"It's okay Mac, I'll manage."

I could sense that familiar pull of anticipation in the pit of my stomach beginning to build, and for once I didn't have the sense to brush it off. I looked to Mac to confirm that this was it – he'd just see to it that I got a cab, got home safely and then...

I shook the cobwebs from my head. It was pointless to think that way, to almost be satisfied that such as a tragedy had occurred, and that maybe, just maybe, he'd be a little more emotionally supportive. He was, maybe, in his own way. A rock, almost, holding together the loose pieces of me, of the city, of everything together beneath his weight. And I got the logic to that, I understood that if he broke his careful demeanor to be a friend to me tonight, maybe that would slow his investigation and cloud his judgment. If anything, I wanted justice, I always wanted justice. I'd told the nurse to be thorough, and maybe if Mac broke his professional air of concern now, things wouldn't get done.

But I really needed used a hug right then.

He had something better in mind.

"You need to take some time."

The brief spark of sadness in his eyes, overcome by solid black colour in the dim light, screamed _Claire_ right in my face, and I wanted to break down right then and there.

"Are you sure you don't want a hotel? Like I said, cleanup isn't quiet finished."

"I'm a big girl, Mac. I just want to go home," I cursed myself at the contradictory implication of that line.

How could I be an adult and a child at the same time?

It doesn't matter. I'd won. I could see his features softening, his face becoming younger, an array of emotions crossing his face before _understanding_ finally set in. It must have been the same for him back then, in the midst of the dust and the rubble, which is perhaps just me being overly-nostalgic. But tragedy just makes its way back to Mac Taylor, whether it be direct, or by comparison.

He hailed a taxi, not a hard task in the middle of Greenwich Village, but I was stupidly overwhelmed by the gesture. I even surprised myself in the process by squeezing his arm just as I slipped into the cab with only a little pain shooting up my spine. I was no less surprised when he got in right next to me as though he'd planned to all along.

I guess by now I really should be better at reading his intentions. I am for the most part already I know, but I'm almost proud of the fact that I can never figure him out entirely – no one can. It was the beauty and the mystery and the tragedy that came with being Mac Taylor.

The ride was regrettably a short one, and in the back of my mind I mused that my apartment would no longer be in the same pristine condition I usually kept it in. Not tonight, and never again afterwards, no matter how I scrubbed my fingers to the bone, I would never be rid of the blood.

I let the evening, the day, the past few weeks fade from the forefront of my mind, just barely allowing them to stain my memory for a rainy day to come, until all I was left with was Mac Taylor, an awkward cab ride, and an old mantra that's been with me from the day I aspired to belong somewhere.

_Take me home._

--

It was four months before my apartment became hell once more, this time in a slightly more visionary way. I was nearly exasperated by the flames that wasted no time in engulfing the living room. Thank God for my sensitive respiratory system. He was there of course, within an hour, Flack at his side, full of concern and worry and, to my giddy delight, was completely willing to hug me.

So you can imagine how absolutely _ecstatic_ I was when Mac Taylor did the same.

It must've been like hugging some flighty tree that they have to tie wires to in order to support against harsh winds, for him. Forget being upset about my home burning down, Mac was _hugging_ me. I mean, sure we'd hugged before, but this was different. This was different because never in my life had I been so adamant in feeling like holding on, forever. It had been different when Claire was around. Claire was great, Claire was one-in-a-million, and Mac was the only person who missed her more than I did.

But Claire was gone now, and although that fact existed, it did nothing to take away from the jolt of guilt that accompanied the quick kiss on the cheek that I managed just before pulling away.

Before he had the chance to offer the coffee in his hand, I could feel the anticipation burning in my stomach. The emotion grew volatile, like the night in the cab, the silent plea, _Take me home._

"So, I got an extra room... "

**TBC**


	2. ii

**ii. Impossible Things**

I _snore_.

Dear Lord, I might as well have told him that I was afraid if I stayed at his place, we'd end up having impromptu sex on his kitchen floor.

I mean, that would've been a lame – no, an outright, _ridiculous_ – excuse, but it at least sounded more plausible than, "Sorry Mac, I don't do sleepovers. Darn nasal cavities."

I tried to swallow that unsettling feeling in my throat, and threw myself into a crowd of matinee-goers. I looked up at a bright green sign, surrounded by a ring of lights: _Wicked_.

"I should've known better," I said, pushing my way through the sea of Broadway enthusiasts and trying not to throw my hands up in the air in defeat.

Only then did I realize how utterly and entirely sick I was of this city. It seemed so magical, so wondrous, at one time. I kept hearing about it, kept seeing it on television, and I'd never seen this disappointment coming. I'd grown up mostly on the steps of the orphanage, watching the people on the streets. The struggling businessmen, the hasty women in their Versace glasses, the tourists that were infinitely more amusing, and perhaps almost endearing, when I was a child.

Then some uptight nun would drag me by the collar back into St. Basil's. Haul me into the mess hall for a dinner of beef broth and dry corn bread. The nuns, I suspect, were good people at heart, but they'd built walls around those hearts, distanced themselves from us orphans. They didn't eat with us, seldom did they play with us, and slept on a different floor. Every morning Sister Ann would tear a wooden comb through my hair and mutter to herself about the unruliness of it. But then, just before she'd finish, she would gingerly pull a curl from behind my ear and let it bounce down my cheek.

For as long as I could remember, until I was finally twelve and deemed old enough to comb my own hair (which, as a result, usually frizzed into a spherical shape around my head like an aging dandelion), those moments were the only amount of affection I was allowed. I was fifteen before I understood the reason.

I'll admit I was lucky. Luckier than most orphans anyways. The sisters were reluctant to give out information to us about how we'd been "given up" or, you know, found. On the steps of the church, the hospital, or in a garbage can, whatever. I never found out where I came from, although I earned many slaps in trying to figure it out. I realize now, that I'm glad that I don't know. I'm glad that throughout my entire childhood, the only tenderness I knew was like some kind of privilege.

Four years of biochemistry at NYU, surrounded by all sorts of tomorrow's geniuses, nearly fifteen years working for New York's finest, and those nuns remained the smartest people I'd ever known.

There would always be an unsettling silence over the orphanage whenever a girl just... left. It wasn't anything too dramatic. There were no announcements, no well-wishing, nothing like that. Just one day, she'd be there at the table, in the classroom, in the bunk above mine, and the next day she'd be gone. Just like that.

There was no time for tears. Life just moved on, and no one would ever speak of that girl again. "That girl" was never me. I saw families - I've seen more families than I care to remember, but I remember them nonetheless. Every single one. And in this city of eight million, I've _still_ managed to come across some of them, ten, twenty, thirty years after they'd said "no" to a scrawny Greek-Italian girl with corkscrew hair.

The nuns, they never felt sad, or at least, they never looked it. Not even when they're favourite girl left with a family, not even when _I'd_ voiced the possibility of joining the convent myself, because the sisters had no one but the other sisters, and since I'd never had anyone there for me but the sisters, I figured that I was already halfway there.

But it was more difficult then that.

Outside of the orphanage, just beyond the front steps where I spent many an afternoon, I imagined there was some magic kingdom, this mystical _New York City_ that everyone kept talking about. The Big Apple, the City that Never Sleeps. I dreamed of being Alice in Wonderland, and it occurred to me as a child, that someday, that dream might actually come true.

I was horribly mistaken.

New York City could have been the magic place I'd always imagined it to be, but I would never be Alice. I would always be Stella Bonasera. Inside of the orphanage, with forty other girls and our caretakers, I was all alone. Outside, with eight million others people, I was shocked to find that I was even more isolated than before. Outside, there was just more people for me to _not_ know, yet be surrounded by every day.

Then, one month after my eighteenth birthday, while I was living in some government-paid dorm room, eating, sleeping and breathing a forensics textbook, Sister Ann died.

But as I stood in the church the day of the funeral, surrounded by so many faces that I recognized but could not name, I could not shed a tear. Sister Ann would have been damn proud.

--

St. Basil's still stood in the same spot it had when I'd lived there. If you could call it _living_.

I'd tried to avoid it as much as possible in the past, but the nostalgia was making me sick, and I felt that if I revisited the place, it would quell the disconcerting knot at the pit of my stomach. Kind of like an awful wave of nausea that doesn't go away until you heave partially-digested food and stomach acid into a toilet.

It was nearly seven, the sun hung low in the sky. With a number of skyscrapers blocking the horizon, I could only barely see the last hints of daylight staining the sky, deepening into a sapphire blue. I tried to force myself to look in through the window, which was silly because the windows at St. Basil's had been frosted over since I'd lived there, as a constant reminder of the seclusion specially reserved for wards of the state.

The real reason I was out roaming the streets of the city, hit me when I was halfway to nowhere, three hours later. And I only say "halfway to nowhere" because it was truth. Sheldon had offered to cover the rest of my shift when he'd seen me at five, juggling a coffee and a pile of paperwork. I was momentarily irked by his concern. Everyone was so goddamn _concerned_ about me these days, it patronized me just thinking about it. I was alone. I'd always been alone. As if their concern made me any _less_ alone than I was. At the end of the day, it was back to my empty apartment.

Except that tonight, I had no apartment. Empty or otherwise.

My credit card, one of the few things I'd been able to retrieve from the apartment after the unit had finished collecting samples, felt heavy in my pocket. It was late. I had to be at work the next morning for an early shift, an extra one that I'd taken on to try and forget about the fire, and also to find the person behind it, and sleep (if I could manage it) would have been a good idea.

Except that well, I still needed a hotel.

And it had been five hours since the end of my shift, and-

I jumped in surprise at the shrill ring tone that ripped through the humid air. I didn't think to test my voice before glancing at the caller ID and then answering.

"Hi Mac..." I said, shakily, wanting to kick myself for not realizing that it had been hours since I'd said anything to anyone, and that I'd spent too much of that time thinking utterly depressing thoughts.

"Stella? Are you alright?" I couldn't hear him properly, so I couldn't judge how to respond.

"I'm fine."

"You'll have to do better than that."

_Concern, ugh_. As if I hadn't had enough of _that _for one day.

"Really Mac, it's no big deal."

"Stella, your apartment burned down."

A muscle in my forehead twitched, "My apartment didn't burn down. Its insides were simply incinerated from the inside out."

"A world of a difference there."

I stopped midstride, shocked if not angered by his careless demeanor. Apparently he was in the mood for some danger.

I wasn't, "Listen Mac, I'm really-"

"Tired? Why is that Stella? Aren't you in bed yet? It's past seven."

I said nothing.

"Oh and by the way, which hotel are you in?"

My heart sank. He knew.

"I could stop by quickly? Or if you're not in the mood, how about we go for coffee tomorrow morning?"

"I... " I stammered, struggling for words, which was pointless because this kind of charade I was desperately trying to uphold was the exactly the kind of bullshit that Mac was trained to see right through, "1535 Broadway, the uh, the Marriot..."

Silence.

"Oh I see."

I squinted. His voice had suddenly become much clearer, much more gravelly, much more like himself. But there was a hint of mystery dancing on the edge of the sound, and being the ever so inquisitive detective I was, I did my best to investigate.

I ran through all the possible scenarios, thought of all the 'evidence', picked apart everything he'd said to me during our five-minute conversation, which had been a lot for him. There was only one reasonable conclusion.

I slid the phone back into my pocket, "How long have you been following me?"

"Oh, from about... 1535 Broadway, " came his voice again.

He was closer than I thought. Right behind me. His breath came in calm, nearly-soundless, puffs against my bare neck. I lamented that I hadn't thought to grab something a little warmer than the spare blazer I had retrieved from the drawer in my office.

I was expecting a lecture. A long, professional lecture. Except that there wasn't many professional things that he could have possibly been planning to say at this very moment, at 9:!2 pm, while I was halfway to nowhere and beginning to realize how much colder it had gotten since the sun had gone down.

"Let's go," he said, walking away.

I was, again, at a complete loss for words. He didn't appear to care whether or not I was following him, since, even as he turned a corner, he didn't turn to look over his shoulder. I wanted to kick myself for deciding to follow anyways. I walked briskly towards him, until I was close enough that all he had to do was just position his head a little to the right to see me. It made me feel vulnerable to walk beside him. I did so all the time at work, but it was different now. I was always in one piece at work, and at that very moment, I was having trouble _finding_ the pieces of me, let alone having the strength to put them back together.

"You didn't want a hotel," he said quietly, sensing that I'd caught up with him, "I guess I can understand that?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, trying not to be sharp. When had I become so predictable?

"Well they're pretty expensive," he said, attempting to sidestep my impending fury.

"I can _afford_ a hotel Mac," I grumbled, only vaguely recognizing his purpose for being here, walking down some obscure street and how I was supporting it.

"Then?"

"Then _what_?"

I was mostly irritated because he knew exactly why I didn't want a hotel, and instead of going ahead and making the assumption that his deduction was correction, and that the _real_ reason I was wandering around the streets of New York City, was because I'd always been a firm believer in the concept of _home_¸ and right now that visionary dwelling was disconcertingly nonexistent.

But he didn't have to rub it in.

Stubborn as I was, and stubborn as he was being as we reached 6th Avenue without another word, I couldn't ignore the fact that 7:30 had come and gone, and that we'd been walking for nearly forty minutes and that my knees were starting to shake.

The cold was almost disorienting. I struggled to put one foot in front of the other while contemplating this 'home' that I was currently lacking. Immediately, Homer and his epic _Odyssey _came to mind. Some fallen hero, struggling to find his way back to a land called Ithaca, flashed across my eyes. It was a lovely mirage. Neptune's waves crashed gleefully against my center of balance. Or that might have been the nausea.

It didn't subside for another fifteen minutes. For fifteen minutes – I discovered when we reached a familiar place that I might have been able to name had I felt more alive – I'd been wearing Mac's jacket. I looked to him questioningly and received only a shrug in response. For a brief moment I found it faintly amusing that somewhere along the line, he had done the unimaginable and placed his jacket on my shoulders, and I had been so adamant in my decision to sail off to _Ithaca_ that I had missed the entire experience. A shame really. I'd being lying if I said I wasn't a romantic.

"You're hopeless, Stella," he said suddenly, as though he had been a part of my inner-commentary.

Then he sat down.

No really, he sat down.

I took a moment to take in my surroundings. Upper West Side apartment... 7:55 pm... Mac Taylor seated on a small wooden bench. There was only one possibility. I was overtaken by the sudden urge to bawl my eyes out. I clutched the credit card in my pocket, feeling the overused edges scrape against the dry skin of my palm.

There I was.

He looked at me, trying to be neutral and encouraging all at the same time. I tried a smile, if only to sway him to one side of the argument, because uncertainty didn't look good on him. I was unsuccessful.

Depression turned to denial, and denial into moroseness and then finally, the day came to a full circle and I strode towards him angrily, "You don't know when to quit. I don't need this okay? I don't need you and the others _constantly_ hovering around me like I'll implode the second you look away."

In all the time that I'd known him, I'd never imagined walking away from him. I no longer had to.

"Stella," he chased, which was something I had not anticipated, "Wait."

But my mind was set. I was done.

"Stella, come on."

"No," I turned sharply so I could look him in the eye, "No... just, no."

"No, what?" he arched an eyebrow.

"Stop it, stop pretending like you know me _so_ damn well. I'm going to live okay? Yes my apartment burned down, why do you _care _so much?"

A brief look of hurt crossed his stern features, "How can you say that?"

"I acknowledge the truth for starters, stop fooling myself, open my mouth and would you believe that the rest just happens?"

"I care about-"

"Whatever is convenient for you to care about."

I felt stupid. Stupid and angry. Stupid and angry at myself mostly, because I knew that none of what I was saying made any sense, and what was worse was that _he_ knew that I knew that entire argument was ridiculous.

Mostly, I felt revolted. Revolted that I was still this sensitive, that I still cared enough about what he'd said the day I'd gotten out of the hospital after Frankie had assaulted me in the old apartment to be upset by it. I was so angry about what he hadn't said then, that I was choosing to ignore what he was offering now. He didn't have to know that.

Didn't _have_ to know, but he knew anyways. He knew. He _knows_. Knows everything, and if it wasn't so damn attractive on him, than it would have been infuriating.

"How do we fix this," he said as though it wasn't a question, "Why won't you talk to me?"

I wasn't sure. Why couldn't I talk to him? We'd been partners and friends for so long, and there had been many times that I'd gone beyond the call of duty, beyond the call of friendship for him. Had nothing changed at all because of that?

"You know what," I said, trying to come to terms with myself, "Just forget I said anything."

"But-"

"No, no really. This is entirely my fault I'm just being stupid. I guess it's just, just... well, my apartment, burned down this morning and-" I sighed, exhausted by the truth.

"There, you said it, was it that hard?" he arched an eyebrow, but accompanied the gesture with a smile.

I couldn't help but smile back, and realized at once that his jacket was still around my shoulders. There was still something missing, something that would have made the moment absolutely perfect. And I waited beneath a street lamp, smiling like an idiot, until it came to me, "Why don't we start over?"

"Okay."

"Stella Bonasera," I held out my hand.

This time he raised both of his eyebrows.

"Oh come on, Mac, it's how they do it in the movies."

The slight smile he'd been wearing broke into a larger grin, "Mac Taylor."

"So."

"So?"

"So what?"

"So I got an extra room."

"But we just met."

"It's okay. I've got a good feeling about you."

**TBC**


	3. iii

**iii. Impossible Things**

I'd spent a lot of time imagining the other peoples' houses. The bricks in the wall, the plaster, the hardwood floors, ceiling-to-floor windows in the living room. Then, when the seasons shifted from summer to fall, I would think of the more of the things that those bricks harbored.

But there wasn't much to wonder about when it came to Mac Taylor's apartment. Before Claire, I didn't have to imagine, because I was _always_ there, lying on his beat-up, second-hand couch, pretending to keep my head in a book. The truth is, the only time I didn't have my head in a textbook, was when I lay on that couch, fifteen years ago, ever so often glancing at the wall on the other side of the apartment, just barely making out Mac's shadow against the warm glow from the kitchen. He could always cook better than I could. And since I was always there, since we were always together, there was no need to imagine what kind of state he lived in. I graduated that summer, and it troubled me that I could now only vaguely remember the last time I lay on that couch, Mac in the kitchen whipping up something fantastic.

What happened in the time between the miserable life of the second-hand (probably fourth-hand) couch, and the entrance of Claire Conrad into his world, was too painful to even think about. What happened afterwards was even worse.

During the seven years they'd been married, I couldn't bring myself to visit. We'd grown distant by then anyhow, and thus I hadn't expected him to call when he had, gushing about his new wife, while I made up some flimsy excuse as to why I couldn't make the wedding.

I look back now and realize how utterly and entirely stupid I was. I could never think of his apartment, because _his_ apartment no longer existed when he was with Claire Conrad-Taylor. It became _their_ apartment, and I'd seen enough episodes of _Sex and the City_ to know that I had no place being there. It was too painful to think of their beautiful life together in the confines of their home, too painful to think that I'd become so selfish, I couldn't even return his birthday wishes and Christmas Cards. That it had taken me several weeks, and several long chats with numerous girlfriends to accept the job offer that eventually became my whole world.

I'd thought then, that this awful emptiness that had threatened to consume me every time he kissed his wife, held her hand, went home with her, had cast me into my darkest moment.

Naturally, the dark times were yet to come.

I could see Sid's home in my head. I could imagine what an incredible father he was, and I could imagine his wife, the most content woman in the world, kissing his forehead when he comes in through the door after work. I could see Adam, a little lost, a little confused, but mostly unaware of his surroundings and the change they had induced within him. Lindsay, finding out that her small-town life was strangely enough, too big for her SoHo apartment. I'd spent so long analyzing and essentially missing the big picture, that I'd become great at noticing the little insignificant things.

Those things were easy to imagine. Mac Taylor was a little more difficult.

I'd avoided thinking about it for so long. I wasn't sure where I stood after Claire died, I didn't want to think about a cold, lonely bedchamber that he rarely retired to anyways, since he spends most of his nights in the lab or – I suspect – on a gleaming leather sofa. That may have very well not been the case, but since I had been too scared to imagine any of it, or to suggest that we maybe get together for dinner sometime like we had so many years ago, I had no idea if any of my grim suspicions were true.

Unfortunately, as he led me through the dim corridors of his Upper West Side apartment, I realized that I could no longer avoid the subject. It would confront me, slap me right in the face the second after he turned his key in the lock. I hadn't been in his apartment since... since... _college_, (technically university, but whatever, I was a student).

Of course, he had moved a couple times. Four times, I think. I'd helped him move three out of four times.

"Here we are," he said unnecessarily, and opened the heavy door.

The cold wood against my side surprised me. It was heavier than it looked, and I, in my dazed state, had no idea what hit me, until I looked to my left and felt the lock digging into my side.

"Easy," he said, turning around and pulling the door back from where it was lodged into my other side.

"Ow," I winced, but stood there like an idiot, pressed up against the doorframe.

"Sorry."

I shook my head, "It was my fault I-" I stopped before I confessed to another weakness and followed him down the dark passage.

"Light's broken," he looked over his shoulder and gave me a slightly amused look, as though he expected me to walk into another door.

"I'll manage," I glared.

Mac had only half-lied when he'd told me he had an extra room. He didn't have _an_ extra room. He had several. We passed almost five doors on our way there, plus one extra thin one that I assumed was a linen closet.

Near the end of the hallway, he stopped, stole another careful glance and opened the final door. I held my breath.

The room was pristine.

Just the way I liked it.

"I hope this is okay," he said quietly, stepping aside to allow me space to enter.

I tried not to shudder as I walked past him, our fingers brushing briefly. I felt my cheeks warm suddenly when I lay my eyes on the room and suddenly everything became real. The room was beautiful. Standard-sized, with a double bed in the corner and a few pieces of conventional furniture. But not cheesy and overdone like a hotel room. More like... a room I would have expected to find in Mac Taylor's apartment.

"The bathroom's just across the hall. You have it to yourself," he said in barely above a whisper.

"O-oh," I brushed a curl over my ear, suddenly fifteen again.

There was something exhilarating about the even silence in the apartment, the stagnant, yet free-flowing breeze that drifted past us. I felt like a school girl, in an empty classroom, with the most popular boy in school.

Except that well, _that_ was just wishful thinking.

"Good night then, Stella."

The door clicked close softly behind him. I looked to the small duffel bag that he'd set down next to my bed and wondered, _when'd he get the chance to do that_? I shook my head, the day was already a blur in my mind, I could feel the sights and sounds of the city shifting, and I couldn't tell if that feeling was internal or external.

The previous weeks were blank, all squished together like your average dream. One second you're watching a ball game, next thing you're the pitcher. There's no transition period, there's no moment for you to stand around and take in your surroundings. Nothing. I decided to lay my questions to rest, and simply accept the fact that the duffel bag was there, and that it was filled with my things, and that I should probably take a look through it before retiring to sleep.

I was calm as I undid the zipper, anticipating the rush of memories that would come flooding back to me when I dug through the bag. But there was nothing. Nothing that came back anyhow. There _was_ quite a few t-shirts, sweaters and of course, shoes, stuffed in the bag along with whatever pent-up feelings I'd been experiencing at the time.

I cringed at the sight of my favourite white dress-shirt, crushed and crumpled between a stiletto and a running shoe, but then shook the thought away. With all those ties and dress pants and generic blue shirts, Mac had to have an ironing board. I would worry about that in the morning.

Tonight, I would just have to be content with a pair of sweats, and an old FDNY sweater that I absolutely refused to wear in public.

The bed was softer than I expected, but that didn't matter, because it could have been hard as a rock and I still would have fallen asleep before my head hit the pillow, my last conscience thought being:

_I never said good night..._

--

"Stella."

My eyes snapped open, and I shot up in bed, "What? What is it?" I clutched my thigh, feeling for the gun that wasn't there.

"It's okay, it's me."

"I know it's you," I grumbled more harsh than I'd intended.

Mac took care to stand a few feet away from me, where no one could accuse him of fraternizing. His eyes drifted out the window to look at the city.

"Was I crying in my sleep," I said without thinking.

"Why would you ask that?"

"Why are you in my room?" I glared and then thought about that question, "I mean... it's your room really... your apartment, I um..."

"Are you hungry?"

"What time is it?"

He held out a hand, and suddenly was a stranger to me. It all seemed so surreal, more surreal than the night at the hospital after Frankie had attacked me. More surreal than waking up from a good dream (for a change) only to be suffocated with smoke after a few seconds.

Taking his hand and holding it, even as he led me into the kitchen, I asked, ""Let me guess, omelets?"

--

The time was 4:53 a.m., the day was September 22nd. Mac Taylor stood at his stove, adding ham and mushrooms and tomatoes to a sizzling omelet, never once looking up from the pan.

I looked longing at his couch. It obviously wasn't the same couch that I'd lain on so many years ago. It wasn't the black leather one that Claire had nagged him to buy either. In fact, I couldn't really tell what kind of couch it was because there were several quilts draped across it, transforming it into makeshift bed.

"All these rooms," I said absentmindedly, "Why do you sleep on the couch?"

He may have shrugged, since I didn't hear an answer and was still staring at the couch.

It wasn't until there was a steaming plate of food in front of me that I could bring myself to tear my eyes away from the centerpiece of the living room. Go figure.

As good as it may have been, I could barely keep myself from retching at the smell of the omelet, despite the fact that Mac was the best cook I'd ever known personally, and that I'd consumed and relished his eggs many times before.

I'd often fallen asleep on that beat up old couch. He'd always been there to wake me.

"I know you don't want to, but you're very pale, and you haven't eaten in awhile," he said quietly, without reaching me, "Stella?"

I felt his fingers beneath my chin, tilting my face upwards so I had no choice but to acknowledge his hard, determined eyes, "You still with me? Stell-"

"The last time I woke up," I picked up the fork and sat down at the table, brushing him off gently, "I mean the last time before this morning. There was smoke. Everywhere."

"And?"

"Nothing. That's all," I dug for a piece of tomato, "That's a nice couch."

"Stella?" he looked at me quizzically, and I didn't blame him. I wasn't making much sense.

But I blamed that on the omelet, which turned out to be better than I expected.

"Are you going to work to tomorrow... today?"

"Not until the afternoon," he leaned in closely, "Hope you won't be bored around here."

"Please," I had to laugh at that, "You say that like it's the first time I've ever lounged around and done nothing productive in your apartment."

"At least you could pretend you were doing something productive back then. What with that chemistry textbook that weighed more than you did."

I was surprised by his reference to the past. Usually he didn't take note of the past, and if he did, he never mentioned it. It was hard, I thought, for him to remember when we were in college. Because back then, there was no Claire in his life, and it hadn't been that bad, he hadn't been so broken. Now she was gone again, and in her absence, something obscene and demanding had grown in between myself and Mac that I was afraid to acknowledge. _I_ didn't even want to think of the past. I didn't want to think about how, that last time he moved, the fourth time, and the only time I hadn't helped, wasn't when he was moving apartments. He was moving _stuff_. Claire's stuff.

Flack had come in the next morning, and amongst the misery that spread everywhere when Mac walked by proud and tall, I could see the traces of pain that crossed Don's face. When I'd asked, he'd replied, "Muscle pain. I was moving boxes."

Boxes. Boxes of Claire Conrad, of Claire Conrad-Taylor, of Mac and Claire Taylor, _the_ Taylors. I couldn't help him move that day. Move his heart out of his dwelling, and hand it to Flack, who set it down with the utmost care and regret, on the street corner, tucking in the edge of the quilt she'd just finished knitting...

I didn't want to be nostalgic. It hurt too much. My heart hurt for them, for Mac and Claire. Meanwhile, my mind raged, filling my body with the desire to tear the apartment apart, search every nook and cranny for the beach ball that he once told me still has her breath in there. I wanted to shove it in his face, puncture it with my nails and force the love contained within it back into his heart. Push it down his throat, and let it infect every fiber of his being.

"You're gone again, Stella," he said, and to that I raised my head.

"No. I'm still with you Mac."

**TBC.**


	4. iv

a/n: sorry this took so long, and that it's so short, but I'll have the next one up _much_ sooner, I promise.

**iv. Impossible Things**

"You never told me why you woke me up," were the words that managed to break my our hour-long vigil.

I could just barely tell that the sun was coming up, the deep indigo clouds were thinning, leaving behind a lighter, clearer blue. I lamented about the fact that, since his apartment faced south west, he would seldom ever see a sunrise, the same way that I could only catch it when I went running very early.

He was quiet from his seat, a rigid wooden chair placed next to the couch that I was sitting on, wrapped up in numerous quilts.

"Mac?"

He looked at me, eyes stern and focused in the same way that mine weren't. If it wasn't for the aura of concern that radiated from him, I would have assumed he was slightly irritated with me for having broken the comfortable silence that we'd established after "breakfast". I wanted to be angry with him but, oh, the quilts were so warm... and I myself actually mourned for the silence that had been so easily shattered.

I opened my mouth again on impulse, thinking nothing of the fact that that was probably going to make things even worse, "This is crazy, how is this even happening?"

Even if he'd planned on answering, I would've probably interrupted and gone on anyways. Which is something that he'd most likely anticipated and thus to reduce the tension between us, he remained silent.

"Impossible, Mac. That's what it is," I held out my hands and glared at them, "Really. First my apartment is incinerated, then I find out my neighbor's a serial kidnapper, and then, and _then_... well, here I am. That alone is just, just... impossible.

I was so enraptured by the brief twinkle that shone in his eyes that I forgot to ready myself for his sarcastic, deadpan humor, "That's three impossible things Stella. Congratulations, you've just disproved about two-hundred scientific theories."

"Oh, ever the scientist," I peered closely at him and calculated the distance between us, and realized that in all the time I'd spent around him, all these years, he'd never sat so close to me before.

I could have literally just, leaned over a little and, I don't know, faked a muscle spasm or something and I would have fallen oh-so subtlety into his lap. Or I could just clutch my head impatiently, the way I did after a really hard case, or another close call and mutter something completely unrelated in Greek, for effect.

I mostly favored the vision of just standing up, tripping over an invisible stick, and collapsing somewhere near, but preferably, _on top_ of him. But that wouldn't be very subtle at all.

Instead I chose to lean back into the soft, warm quilts the way I had an hour ago, hoping that they would set the same spell that they had an hour ago, when he had first suggested that I lay down again. I'd demanded the couch, arguing _For old time's sake._

Except that I hadn't anticipated what effect the makeshift bed would have on me once I lay enveloped in it. This was the place that _he_ had slept so very recently. And I'd often mused that since Mac couldn't possibly be a human being (what with the sixty-plus hour work week he usually pulls) during the day, he had to concede to the bare minimum of physical sustenance every once and awhile.

It had occurred to me then, when I'd rolled over among the all the layer of fuzzy material, that this was the resting place of some impossibly valiant hero. Or villain. Or lover. Or friend, or boss or _continual_ object of my affection, depending on the day, and the day's conversations and the day's corpses.

Some days there were no conversations.

But there was always a corpse to be found.

I tilted my chin up to look at him, pausing to close my eyes and inhale the firm, demanding scent that wafted up from the sofa. _Pine_, I thought opening my eyes again and smiling at his bemused expression.

He was just soclose.

Fifteen more minutes and I could no longer help myself, "Mac, come sit."

"I am."

I looked closely at him. He replied with a sigh and a nod, although I preferred not to wonder about the reasons for the former, and was content that he conceded to my request, and rose from the chair to join my on the couch.

He sat the same way he did at work. On the edge of his seat, adamantly refusing to relax against the back of his 2000 dollar government-funded, leather-upholstered, complete-with-five-easily-adjustable-headrests-to-ease-work-induced-knots chair, in his office at the lab. It was either because he didn't want to develop a reputation like most of the First Officers in the city, slacking off and leaving all the work to their subordinates, or because he genuinely could not rest until justice was served. Probably both, the second one leading to the first.

And the fatal flaw in that was that, as much as he practiced objectivity on the job, and as much as he expected the rest of us to do the same, it was the human in him that made him so good at his job. The ever-present emotions – regret, honour, sorrow, compassion – drove his actions. The only thing that _was_ objective, that could ever be objective, were the methods we used to find, and process and analyze the leftovers of a crime scene.

I wondered if he knew that, and furthermore, what if he _did_ know that, but couldn't bring himself to admit it? Except that Mac wasn't ignorant, so it irritated me that now, as we sat, even closer together on his couch, in his apartment, he seemed to be ignoring me.

"Where'd you get this quilt, Mac?" I asked, trying not to let my aggravation get the better of me.

He looked at me quizzically, almost as though I'd asked him the most ridiculous question in the world.

Almost.

But the reason for his bewilderment turned out to be something entirely different, "Stella," he arched an eyebrow, "You gave this to me?"

"What?" my back straightened, and I arched my head upwards to look him in the eye, "I did not."

"You _did_, Stella."

"That's impossible," I tried to ignore the smirk that appeared on his face at that and struggled to justify myself, "It's taupe. I hate taupe. I have good taste you know?"

"That doesn't change the fact that you bought me this quilt. It was four years ago, Secret Santa."

"You're lying," I poked his side, trying to be playful, at six in the morning when he probably wasn't even in the mood.

"No I'm not. It was Christmas, 2000."

I fell silent once more, knowing better than to argue with him about the year 2000. He had every last minute of that year recorded in his head, he knew every last detail, he had to. It was the very last year he'd spent with his wife.

He frowned, "What's up?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're tense, all of a sudden."

My gaze fell to my hands, and then drifted to his, idle and relaxed at his sides. At the back of my mind I could see impossible things playing out in my head, a chain of events that would have been sparked by that observation had my life been your average chick flick. As opposed to, oh I don't know, say your average prime time crime drama.

Speaking of impossible things.

**TBC**


	5. v

a/n: this is the final chapter. the rating went up a little, mostly because of content. thanks for reading and reviewing.

**v. Impossible Things**

The morning began to pass quickly, mostly due to my constant avoidance of him after the conversation in the living room, which ended with a lousy, _I'm going to go... freshen up_, followed by a hasty exit compliments of yours truly.

Of course, if anyone could avoid Mac Taylor in _his _apartment, it was me. I pretended to busy myself with trivial things, but he probably knew better. He kept his distance throughout the morning, shuffling around the apartment, staying away from the room I had borrowed, as though willingly repelled by the walls I'd built in his dwelling without his permission.

At the same time, there was an ever-present fear within me, of what would happen when one o' clock PM came and we would both have to go into work, and get back to our lives and the be the people we were supposed to be, complete with the professional relationship we were supposed to have. Strangely enough, I wondered if a professional relationship could ever happen between us again, and wondered further if that was even what I really wanted. As if I had to wonder at all.

I sat cross-legged on the guest room bed and tried to mediate on my thoughts and feelings, hoping that they would stop running around like crazed five-year-olds and settle down so I could evaluate them. But the more I pondered, the more perplexed I became, and when my inner musings finally did come to a standstill, I was afraid to examine them. What if all my rational thoughts just drifted away leaving behind just a bunch of jumbled feelings? What if I mediated and found that there was no real answer to any of this? Maybe I was on a wild-goose chase, and maybe it was leading me no where.

I couldn't face that again, I'd been faced with so many long, unending roads, that the prospect of there being yet _another_ one, nearly twenty years after I'd finally gotten out of the orphanage, was nothing short of absolutely devastating.

Predictable as I am, I sought out the only person who had ever been able point out a clear, rational destination in the midst of scheming world.

I was only slightly disappointed to find Mac lying on the same couch that I had hours earlier, hands folded across his chest, as though he had been scolding the ceiling before he'd fallen asleep. His eyebrows were knit into a complicated expression, half-grimace, half-observant frown. It was oh so tragically normal of him, to fall asleep on his couch, the remnants whatever problem he'd been trying to solve previously, written all over his face.

I tiptoed into the kitchen and thought briefly of the irony of the moment, before assuming command of the room and turning on the tap. I washed the dishes from that morning, taking my time, trying to recall the exact way I'd felt when I'd awoken to find him hovering above me, whispering "It's okay, it's me."

I shivered, thinking of the reassurances in his eyes, and suddenly was able to recall his hands, suspended in the air, close to my shoulders but not touching them because that would have been _fraternizing._

Then the memory was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, and I mourned the fact that at that time, I hadn't noticed the closeness, hadn't bothered to remind myself of all the times I'd dreamt of waking to see his face, his eyes, his hands. His hands... his hands...

... were on mine.

Right there, in the kitchen of his lonely apartment that was beginning to feel less and less lonely by the minute.

"Mac?" I panicked briefly.

"It's me," he said, his breath warm and unexpected on my neck.

_I might as well have told him that I was afraid if I stayed at his place, we'd end up having impromptu sex on his kitchen floor._

I felt like sticking my head beneath the tap, if only it would alleviate the burning sensation that had started in my cheeks and was spreading throughout my body. Except that, the tap was off, and I couldn't remember how that had happened, but suddenly it didn't matter, because his hands went away from mine and I was shocked by how cold they felt as a result.

"I have a dishwasher, you know," he said, enveloping my hands with a checkered dish-towel that had appeared from nowhere.

"I've never used one before," I turned a little, pulling the cloth – and my hands – from his grasp.

"Never?"

I shook my head and looked at the floor, "We didn't have one at the orphanage until I was fifteen. I was conditioned by then."

He smiled at that, and it may have been the first time that that smile did nothing to alleviate the emotions tearing carelessly at my resolve. I moved to wrap my arms around him, hoping that the closeness would help, the way it usually had.

It did exactly the opposite.

The second I felt him reciprocate, the dam broke, and even as his shirt grew wet against my cheek, I couldn't stop myself from crying. The explanation was there, I knew why I was upset. The fire, the AIDS scare, Frankie, and the conversation on the couch this morning, when Mac had been so close, so far, so utterly and entirely everything that I had ever wanted.

I could voice none of these thoughts. So I cried the feelings out, and if tears could speak, _then_ any chance of a professional relationship with him would have disappeared immediately.

It did so anyways.

I felt his lips against my cheek, close to my ear, and tried to judge whether or not it was a kiss, or just an accidental brush. I tried to rationalize the situation, so that it didn't seem like he was holding me tighter, whispering strange, indecipherable messages into my ear.

"This can't be happening," I said once I'd run through all the possible explanations as to why we were still joined, long after the tears had stopped, "Mac, why is this happening?"

I relaxed a little, tried to except that – after the sixth kiss against my cheek – everything I had ever done to stay away from him, had been a mistake. The stubbornness. The adamancy. Frankie and the countless other nameless men before him. And the only thing that hadn't been a mistake, this sudden feeling that everything was about to change, was hardly believable, even as I began to feel his warmth mesh together with mine.

"I don't know," he replied, and I could no longer hold back.

I pulled back for a second, to glimpse briefly into his eyes, and seeing no objection there I leaned in to close to gap between us in what may have been the most daring thing I had ever done in my entire life.

I'd spent many a lunch break imagining what kissing Mac Taylor would be like. Lindsay had jeered at me before for my inherent ability to just _stare_ at him when he wasn't talking. You'd think that my constant study of his face would make it easy for me to measure at which degree at I would have to tilt my head for our lips to meet smoothly.

Surprisingly enough, none of that came into play when our lips did touch. I moved entirely on instinct. And well, that unmistakable desire to kiss him, reached its pinnacle after fifteen years of being shunned and ignored.

It was the most human thing I had ever done, and I learned more about myself in that moment than I could ever hope to know.

Well, there was just one more thing.

"You are an excellent kisser."

My eyes widened and I stumbled backwards, knocking into the counter behind me. When I regained whatever composure that was still salvageable, I tilted my head upwards and started at him in shock.

He looked almost amused, "You know, if anyone _should_ be shocked, it's me."

The reality of the situation came crashing down on me, "Um... you're right. Listen, I know we're colleagues and uh... wow, you're my _boss_, and... shit, uh well you could technically fire me and then peg me for sexual assault and-"

"That option is null and void. I just admitted that you were a-"

"Don't," I held my hand up, "J-just... let me wrap my head around this.

He folded his arms around his chest and continued to stare at me with an outrageously bemused smirk.

"I'm glad you find this hilarious," I shook my head, trying not to hyperventilate, "I... I just _kissed _you."

His eyes were level with mine.

"A-and... you!" my heart thundered against my chest, "You kissed me back."

I was speaking mostly to myself at this point, and with good reason. _He_ had already accepted both of those facts, perhaps in the very moment that they had come into existence. Either he was more brilliant than I had expected, or I was just the most emotionally dysfunctional person on the face of the Earth.

Past experiences have lead me to believe the latter.

"That is what happened," he shifted his weight from one foot to another, and I realized that it was the very first time in a long, long time, that he appeared to be nervous, "Unless, it's something that you wished hadn't happened, in which case... I'm sorry."

Oh, ever the gentleman. As if it had been his fault in the first place.

"I don't know what to feel," I said, sinking down against the cupboards, shifting over to make room for him as he did the same.

"Myself as well. I haven't known what to feel, _if_ I should even bother feeling anything, for the longest time."

"How long?"

"Since you... moved in."

I had a vague feeling that I quickly dismissed as a delusion, that he wasn't just talking about the room I'd inhabited for less slightly more than twenty-four hours.

"I always wanted to. You know, move in, not literally, but... you know?" I asked, ridiculously, but not quite rhetorically.

"I know."

"You know. Right."

He smiled a little, provoking me to do the same despite the fact that I was absolutely horrified about everything that there was to be horrified about.

"And... Mac, I know it's going to just complicate things but..."

"But?"

"Well, I was thinking and-"

"Yes?"

"We could... you know."

"Yes, we could."

"And what if?"

"Then we'll handle it."

"And what will they?"

"It doesn't matter."

"So then that means you-"

"Yes," his eyes gleamed with regret, and a tinge of something else, "It's you. More than anything, or anyone, it's you, Stella."

"How... long?"

He hesitated, "Since before the lab, maybe even before Claire, not to say that I didn't love her. I do love her, I always will..." he rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, "But it's different with you."

I thought hard, trying to wage the truthfulness of his words as though there was even the slightest possibility that he was lying. Which there wasn't, and Claire, God bless her soul, would have backed that without a second-thought.

"Stella?"

"Mac."

I felt his fingers brush my hand, and there was a moment of mutual agreement between us before his pressed his lips to mine once more and whispered against them, "You were crying in your sleep."

I didn't bother to ask what for.

--

An irrelevant amount of time later, Mac Taylor divulged the tragic history that ran through the walls of his lonely apartment, eradicating every last pleasant memory of what his life had been like before the towers fell.

"How does it feel..." he said, gingerly rolling the beach ball in his hands, "... to know all of my secrets?"

I reached out to touch him, sliding my hand down his arm, tracing the curve of his elbow before finally entwining my fingers in his. He set the beach ball down and looked at me. I wish I could say that I was ashamed as we kissed, touched, and did other things near and on the plastic-covered couch, surrounded by boxes filled with all sorts of trivial things. But I wasn't ashamed. Just a teensy bit guilty, but that was nothing compared to the way I just came apart in his embrace when he looked at me in the height of passion with the whole world in his eyes.

Afterward, as I lay cushioned into his side, I looked up at him to answer his question, "I must admit wasn't really expecting the one about Lewis Carroll," I said, motioning to the leather-bound book that remained the only unpacked item in the apartment, "But for the most part, there's nothing too shady about you."

He smiled, "There's one more thing you might want to know."

"What's that?" I kissed him quickly, playfully on the lips.

"I am technically homeless now."

Anyone else would have rolled their eyes, but I could only smile until my cheeks hurt.

"Well, I don't have an extra room," I felt his arms squeeze tighter around me, "But as long as you don't mind sharing..."

**fin**

_October 2008_


End file.
